


The Sign of Four

by CherryBlossomTide



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, F/M, India, Mentions of rape and victim blaming, Pakistan, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead and ready to return to his old life. When a young woman from India asks for their help in locating her missing father it Sherlock hopes that this case will allow him and John a chance to return to their old routine, unfortunately things may have changed between him and John more than he'd aniticipated.</p><p>Written for the moderndoyle challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sign of Four

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to **rabidfangurl** for beta.
> 
>  
> 
> Content Notes: References to past rape, violence, and discrimination due to race and religion.

Sherlock was being watched.

The proper name for this phenomenon is scopaesthesia: the preternatural awareness of being observed, in the absence of any visual cues or auditory cues to alert one to the fact. There is some debate about its significance. Take the present example: a believer might see this tingling under the skin, this lurking awareness, as evidence of the paranormal, proof Sherlock possessed some sort of latent extrasensory ability. A rationalist would think that Sherlock’s unconscious mind had registered certain clues, the creak of a floorboard, for instance, an outlet of breath. A romantic would argue that he knew because it was John.

“You’re up early,” Sherlock said in a low voice.

There was a soft exhalation of breath behind him, barely audible. Sherlock counted out the beats waiting for his friend to reply - two –three- four –five.

“Guess so.”

That voice. Sherlock hated it. He hated its measured cadence, hated the small centering pause that now seemed to precede every declaration John made. Sherlock imagined John as a scientist in a laboratory, bottling his unspoken words in beakers, carefully filtering them, adding the correct amount of a nullifying agent, dabbing it carefully with the litmus paper of his oh-so-sensitive conscience before delivering it up to Sherlock, denatured, harmless, neutralised. Sherlock turned to look at his friend, standing at the bottom of the stairs, shuttered expression, faded jeans, beige coloured jumper. The living embodiment of the non committal.

John shifted under his scrutiny. “Do you want some tea?”

How he did love to hide behind his beverages. Anger, grief, joy, misery, sexual frustration, John’s answer was always the same. A cup of tea. A pint down the pub. A stiff whiskey. Sherlock shrugged, a gesture John seemed to read as assent because he went straight to the kitchen and began bustling. Sherlock watched him through narrowed eyes. 

It wasn't a mystery, really, why John had been watching him. If death was a difficult concept for the human brain to come to terms with, then resurrection was even more so. The first night after Sherlock had returned John had come down on four separate occasions to look at Sherlock in his (feigned) repose. Once he had even taken his pulse. Currently, John only seemed to feel the need to check on Sherlock once, when he first woke. This ought to be considered an improvement, Sherlock supposed.

What baffled Sherlock, what had settled under his skin like a particularly insidious parasitic infestation, was John’s _distance_. The calm and automatic way he went about their interactions, as though he were a sleepwalker drifting across Sherlock’s path unaware rather than the wakeful and responsive friend Sherlock remembered. Was this intended as a form of punishment? Or was John still trapped in his grief stricken torpor, unable to snap out of it, in spite of Sherlock’s very real and obvious return to life? 

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of John making tea. That, at least, was familiar. John’s tea making routine hadn’t changed: he began by running the tap for a moment, then filling the kettle. What next? Sherlock could hear the cups clink as he got them down from the shelf. John always put the milk in first because that’s how his mother told him it was done (so very lower middle class). He still tapped his fingers on the side of the counter waiting for the kettle to boil, because he isn’t as patient as you would think, John Watson. He put the tea bag in at just before the water, watching it bob to the surface under the boiling stream. He probably still frowned slightly as he reached for the sugar to put in Sherlock’s tea, because four spoonfuls was too indulgent, and Sherlock would give himself diabetes someday.

And there. The kettle was snapped off, the water poured. Sherlock could hear footsteps - John was carrying it back into the living room room, placing it on the coffee table. Sherlock kept his eyes closed. There was a squeak of springs as John sat in the chair opposite.

“You didn’t make any for yourself,” Sherlock commented after a long silence.

“Didn’t fancy it.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, staring at his friend. “You always have tea in the mornings.”

John’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Things change.”

 _Yes_ , Sherlock thought, _yes that’s it exactly_. He leaned forward abruptly.

“Would you fetch me my morocco case, John? I think you’ll find it on the mantelpiece.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes for a brief moment, before he looked away.

“You can get it yourself.”

“Yes, or you could save me the effort.”

John got to his feet. “I’m going to see if we have any post.”

Sherlock watched as he walked away. His hands weren’t clenched, there was no sign of any unusual tension in his shoulders. John had either improved at his ability to hide his tells or he honestly did not care about the contents of his morocco case. Sherlock knew that John knew what was in it. He had heard John opening it to check the second night after he’d returned. He’d expected a confrontation, the syringe broken, the solution poured down the sink or some other dramatic and equally useless gesture. But John had said nothing. Sherlock had indulged three times since his return, one of which he was certain John was aware of (the man was a doctor, after all). No response at all. 

Perhaps if Sherlock injected himself in front of John, that might force a reaction. He might jump up, knock the needle from Sherlock’s hand. He might tell Sherlock that he was a cold hearted monster, an inhuman machine, because who else would allow their only friend to believe that they were dead for over a year? Sherlock would be prepared to accept that. Anything to break this unending _quiet_.

Sherlock stood up, taking the case from the mantelpiece. He took out the syringe, running his fingers along the smooth glass surface.

“You’ve got a letter.” John had returned. His eyes flicked from the syringe in Sherlock’s hand to his face.

“You might as well read it for me,” Sherlock said. “I’m occupied.”

John blinked once, then ripped open the envelope “I thought you’d given up,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged ostentatiously. “I’m bored.”

“Right. Well. Your letter is from someone called Pierre DuLac.”

“Head of Interpol,” Sherlock commented. “I helped him out with a few small matters while I was on the continent.”

“Right,” said John. He scanned the letter. “Well, seems like he’s pretty grateful. Very complimentary.”

Sherlock shrugged indifferently.

“Listen to this – _I wish I could take the time to sit at your feet and learn your methods – your precision and intellectual prowess are beyond the imagining._ ” John raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like he has a bit of a crush.”

“He did seem to regard me as some sort of crime-solving messiah,” Sherlock said. “A bit embarrassing really. Mind you, he didn’t lack potential."

Sherlock held up his pre-made solution to the light, flicking at the container. John put the letter down on the table. “You’re going to do that here?”

“Does that bother you?”

John looked at him for a moment, expression blank. Then he turned, swept up his jacket in his arms.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“John,” Sherlock said, and put the syringe down on the table. 

A bell rang from downstairs. John’s head snapped up, shoulders straightening, and he looked at Sherlock.

“Single ring, high pressure, 1.5 seconds,” Sherlock commented.

“Client?”

“Almost certainly.” Sherlock smiled, sweeping a newspaper over the syringe. Since his return cases had understandably been thin on the ground. After a year out of the public eye he was going to have to build up his reputation again.

John put his jacket back down on the chair.

“You, er, want me here then?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. A case was what they needed, he reflected. An injection of adrenaline and danger, an opportunity for Sherlock to show off his brilliance, and for them to return to their old easy companionship. He was listened carefully to the sound of two pairs of footsteps climbing the stairs, Mrs. Hudson’s and another person’s, lighter, more agile, considerately keeping pace with the old lady. Female, certainly; young at a guess; a professional woman, judging by the quality of the heel.

The door opened and Mrs Hudson poked her head around it. “You decent, boys?”

“Always decent, Mrs Hudson.” John said, smiling.

“Well, I hope so because you’ve got a visitor! Miss Mahal, this way.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock carefully looked their visitor up and down. A petite woman, aged around thirty, long black hair tied in a neat bun at the back of her head. She had a heart shaped face and large dark eyes, the childlike effect of which was offset by a rather sharp chin. Attractive, perhaps, but not beautiful. She wore a well cut business suit in dark blue, black shoes, no necklace but pearl earrings in each ear. It was her tights that interested Sherlock however – black tights, polyester blend – most revealing, certainly.

“Well, I’ll leave you young people to it,” Mrs Hudson said from the doorway. “I’ve got a pan on the stove.”

“Thanks,” John said to her. Sherlock continued to watch his new client. She was looking around the flat, eyes wide open, assessing.

“Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?” she asked. She spoke with a distinct Indian accent, Delhi born with a Punjabi influence, Sherlock suspected. Couldn’t have been in London for more than two years.

“He is,” John said, eyes crinkling in that particular way they did when he was amused by something. “My name’s John Watson.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the woman said politely, taking John’s hand. “Maruti Mahal, but most people call me Mary here.”

She walked over to Sherlock. Sherlock disliked shaking hands with strangers on principle but it at least allowed him to test the hypothesis raised by the tights. Confirmed, oh excellent, this was going to be _fun_.

“Please take a seat,” John said solicitously, nudging his own chair towards the woman. She sat neatly in the chair, folding one ankle behind the other.

“I have come to ask for your help, Mr Holmes. I have heard you spoken of as the very best of detectives.”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked. “Hmmm. Well, I can see it must be an important matter to you, having gone to the trouble of stealing your employer’s clothing to meet me in.”

The woman’s head turned to him sharply, eyes widening in surprise. “What do you mean?“

“Oh, please. That suit cost several hundred pounds when new, and while it fits you perfectly the shade does not match your shoes. You are wearing tights recently bought off a market stall in East Peckham (a false economy, by the way, you’ll be developing a ladder by the end of the day) and the texture of your hands tells me that you spent more time with your hands in a bucket of soap suds than behind a desk. You’re a cleaner and not a very well paid one either.”

It was rather an impressive deduction and Sherlock found himself pausing, purely by habit it seemed, for John to say something complimentary. He didn’t – instead John seemed to be frowning at Maruti’s hands, which were gripping the arms of her chair rather tightly.

“You’re right,” she said, in a low voice. “I borrowed the suit after I took it to the dry cleaners. I couldn’t see what the harm was, she’ll never notice it. And I didn’t have anything to wear that wasn’t-“ she pushed her shoulders back, tightening her lips. “In my experience of this country, people are more willing to help others when they look a certain way.”

“That isn’t the case here,” John leaned forward to assure her. “Sherlock helps all sorts of people, he doesn’t even charge a fee half the time.”

“I can pay you, I promise.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock said. “But unimportant. I will take your case if it interests me. Now, why don’t you get on and tell us why you are here? Please don’t be boring about it.”

Maruti bit her lip. “It started two years ago,” she said, “when my father disappeared. He went away to England when I was only a little girl, leaving me in the care of my aunts and uncles. Our family was not wealthy and he believed that there would be more opportunities for him here. He always planned that once he was settled here I could come and join him - have an English education, live a better quality of life.” She smiled bitterly. 

“It didn’t exactly work out that way. He sent back money regularly, wrote me letters and emails weekly. He was always full of optimism, but it was clear that he wasn’t doing as well as he would have liked. He found jobs, but never the ones he wanted, rents were too high, people heard his accent and turned him away. He was a cab driver for a while and then worked in a restaurant. The money he sent back was enough to give me a good education in Delhi, and I studied hard and qualified to become a science teacher.” Her eyes flickered slightly in Sherlock’s direction at that. Desire to be taken seriously as something more than a floor scrubber. As if Sherlock cared.

“It was then that my father started to speak more positively about the idea of my joining him. He had made a new friend, a Mr Sholto, and was planning to go into business with him. He called me from phone booth in Piccadilly, sounding very excited. He told me to apply for my visa, said his luck had finally changed, and that he was sending me some plane tickets. The tickets arrived a week later, but he didn’t contact me again. The emails stopped, and I couldn’t reach him on any of his old phone numbers. I decided to make the journey to England regardless, and once I got here I searched for him everywhere I could think of. I found Mr Sholto but he told me that he hadn’t seen my father in months. I looked up all his old employers, the places where he’d stayed but they all drew a blank. The last person I could find who had seen him was his roommate, a Polish man, who had seen him leaving his flat day after he’d called me. He never returned.”

“Did you contact the police?” John asked.

“Yes. They couldn’t find anything. Honestly, I don’t think they were very concerned. They advised me to leave the problem with them, return home to my own country, but I couldn’t do that. I found a job with a cleaning agency here and kept looking. I couldn’t find anything, until….”

“Until?” Sherlock prompted.

Maruti reached up, unscrewing her earring from her ear. She handed it to him.

“Six months ago, this came for me in the post. Unmarked envelope. And a month later, this.” She took out her other earring. “And then these.” She reached into a pocket and handed over a handful of pearls. Sherlock bent over them, holding them under the lamp light.

“No note?”

“Not until the last one,” Maruti said. “This came yesterday, along with the most recent jewel.” She handed over a typed letter.

_Dear Ms Mahal,_

_My condolences over the loss of your father. I have recently suffered a similar loss. I have matters I would like to discuss with you - I promise it will be to your advantage. Meet me in the Red Lion pub near your flat tomorrow evening at 9. You can bring someone with you if you must but no police._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_A friend.  
_

Sherlock examined the paper closely, before passing it on to John.

“Thoughts?” he asked, as John perused the letter.

John shrugged. “Bit creepy.”

“Creepy?”

“Who the hell signs themself ‘a friend’?” John asked. “And all this stuff about the pub near her flat – it’s like he’s making it clear he knows where she lives.”

“Obviously he knows where she lives,” Sherlock pointed out. “He’s been sending her jewellery for the past six months. Pay attention, John.”

“I don’t like it,” said John, looking up at Maruti. “I think you should stay away. Sherlock and I can go in your place, if you want.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock said. “This correspondent clearly wants to see Maruti, not us. What would be the sense in turning up without her?”

“I want to see them,” Maruti said grimly. “If there’s any chance at all that they know what happened to my father I want them to have to look me in the eye and tell me about it.”

“Between the two of us I am sure we are more than capable of keeping Miss Mahal from harm,” Sherlock said. “Besides, I think it unlikely that this person is a threat.”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Think, John. Miss Mahal’s father disappeared two years ago. Six months ago someone starts sending her presents, and now a letter with a clear reference to her father’s disappearance.”

“Yes?”

“Clearly whoever it is knows what happens to Mr. Mahal. Were they responsible for his disappearance? If so sending his daughter presents could be an expression of guilt, no? But then, why wait over 18 months to do it? More likely, the person responsible for Mr. Mahal’s disappearance is no longer in the picture but the knowledge of what occurred was passed on to someone with a more sensitive conscience…. John, fetch me my laptop!”

John passed the laptop to Sherlock and Sherlock began searching immediately. It took him less than a minute to find what he was looking for.

“There!”

John and Maruti both moved over to look over his shoulder.

“Taxi driver Kamal Sholto,” Sherlock read. “died in hospital after being involved in a collision Chiswick High Road. His passenger was unharmed. “

“It’s dated six months ago,” Maruti breathed.

“Indeed. Rather a coincidence.”

Maruti took a step back, face pale. “Are you saying that you think Sholto was responsible for what happened to my father?”

“I’d say it’s very likely.”

“I met him. I drank tea with him in his home.”

“We can’t be sure what happened,” John said. He had moved so as to put his hand on Maruti’s arm Sherlock noticed, irritated. “We don’t have to assume the worst yet.”

“I know he must be dead,” Maruti said flatly. “He’d never leave me to worry like this if he could help it.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. His eyes were soft with concern. It gave Sherlock an unpleasant dropping sensation in the stomach to see it. It had been a long time since John had looked at him with any kind of genuine expression on his face. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed that ever present sympathy, the knowledge that he could look over and see the emotions he didn’t feel himself playing over his friend’s face.

He shut the laptop with a decisive snap. Maruti and John both started, tearing their eyes away from each other.

“Well then,” Sherlock said. “Nothing to be done but arrange for this meeting with Sholto’s heir. You are still prepared to go ahead with it?”

“Of course,” Maruti said, sharp chin jutting out in determination.

“We’ll be beside you every step of the way,” John said earnestly.

“We’ll meet at your flat at half eight,” Sherlock said. “Now I expect you’d better get that expensive suit back to your employer, hadn’t you?”

“Yes,” Maruti said, collecting herself. “Thank you so much for your help. It is a weight off my mind.”

“It is my job.” Sherlock stood, looming over her as she picked up her bag from the floor and made to leave.

“We’ll see you soon – take care of yourself,” John said as she reached the door. She looked back and smiled at him before walking out of the door.

There was a resounding silence after Maruti had left. Sherlock fixed his eyes on John, who appeared to be avoiding his gaze. John moved over to the window, no doubt watching Miss Mahal depart.

“I do hope you aren’t intending to embark on one of your _relationships_ , John,” Sherlock said, at last. John looked back at him, expression shuttered and then shrugged, turning back to look out at the empty street.

 

***

 

Three weeks after Sherlock’s return, John had gone out to the pub. When he’d returned home, five hours later, he’d seemed to find it difficult to make it up the stairs. Sherlock had gone out to help him and to his surprise found himself crowded against a wall. 

“You,” John had whispered, whiskied breath hot against Sherlock’s face. “You, you, you.”

It was like a mantra, a chant and Sherlock wasn’t sure it was supposed to mean. John had put a hand on Sherlock’s chest and lifted another to touch his face. Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was intending to do. He might be about to try and embrace him, or possibly put his hands around his throat and try and choke the life out of him. Sherlock wasn’t sure, at this juncture, which he would prefer. 

In the end, John did neither, only slumping, defeated on the stairs, hands dropping away.

“Go away,” he said. “I don’t want to look at you.”

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Please.” John had covered his face with his hands.

In the end Sherlock had done what he was told. He’d sat in the dark of his own room and listened as John eventually picked himself up and stumbled up the stairs to his own room.

 

***

 

John and Sherlock waited in the litter-strewn forecourt of Maruti’s block of flats. It was a particularly insalubrious neighbourhood. John stood with head ducked, hands deep in his pockets. Not looking at Sherlock.

“She’s late,” Sherlock commented.

John checked his watch. “Not really.”

A door clanged shut on the far side of the forecourt and Maruti appeared. She was wearing jeans this time, and a cheap sweater, long hair now in a pony tail. Judging from the consistency of her drying hair, the drip marks on her shoulder, she had left work recently, and washed in cold water. She picked her way through the mess left by an overturned rubbish bin to reach them.

“Hi,” John smiled at her warmly.

“I’m so pleased you were able to come,” Maruti said. She was nervous, obviously, small hands clenching and unclenching themselves. John angled his body towards her, protectively. Sherlock wondered if he did it consciously.

“Come along, then,” he said, turning his back on the pair of them and striding towards the pub. He wasn’t sure why he felt as if he could hear the echo of John’s words in the sound of his own footsteps on the street. _You. You, you, you._

***

 

It was busy inside the pub, full of murmuring voices, the jukebox playing. Sherlock and Maruti stood close together, scanning the pub for likely candidates. In the end their quarry spotted them first – a floppy haired young man with large glasses, stood up waving at them.

“Maruti?” The young man said eagerly, as they approached.

“Yes.”

“Tariq Sholto,” the young man moved forward abruptly and enveloped Maruti in a hug. Sherlock could feel John tensing beside him.

“Hey there.” John laid a restraining hand on Tariq’s arm, and the young man pulled back looking a bit abashed.

“I’m sorry,” Tariq said. “I forget you don’t know me. It’s just I feel almost as though you are a sister to me now. You know our fathers were friends?”

“I’d heard something about it,” Maruti said stiffly.

“Please take a seat.” Tariq gestured to the table he was sitting at. “Let me get everyone a drink. Sorry, your friend’s names are…?”

“John Watson,” John said, “and Sherlock Holmes.”

“Are you really?” Tariq said. “Goodness, how exciting. I never imagined your friends would be celebrities! What shall I get you to drink?”

“Just water for me, thanks,” Sherlock said.

“And me,” Maruti said.

“I’ll have a pint,” John shrugged.

When Tariq returned several minutes later with the drinks his face was flushed with excitement.

“So,” he said, sliding into the seat opposite Maruti. “I suppose you want to know what all this is about.”

“I would rather,” Maruti said dryly.

“I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff,” Tariq said. “But at the time it didn’t seem we could be too careful.” Tariq took a mouthful of his orange juice. 

Maruti leaned forward. “Do you know what happened to my father?”

Tariq winced and then put the glass down. “Sorry,” he said. “No. He was supposed to meet my father one day and just – never showed up. We did ask everyone we could think of, but no one knew what had happened to him.”

Maruti sunk back in her seat, deflated.

Tariq sighed. “I should probably tell you this from the beginning, shouldn’t I? I first met your father when he was working with my Dad. They worked together at the time, at a restaurant in Southall. They hit it off right away but they really became close once they realised they had a fantastic coincidence in common. You see, our family came here from Krisnan.”

Maruti’s head snapped up.

“Krisnan in Pakistan?”

Tariq smiled. “Exactly. We couldn’t believe the luck of it!”

“Would you mind explaining the significance of Krisnan?” Sherlock asked.

“Krisnan is where my family were originally from.” Maruti said slowly. “After India achieved Independence from British Rule, it was decided that Hindus and Muslims could not live peacefully together. The government decided – after strong pressure from the British, I might add, to carve the country up between the Hindus and the Muslims, and create a new nation, Pakistan. Hindu families were moved out of the Northernmost parts of the country and Muslim families moved in. Before the relocation my family had lived in Krisnan for generations.”

“My family was one of those that moved in,” Tariq explained. “What a joke! My grandparents might have passed yours on the road. Your father used to say, we could have moved into your old house! And of course, one he realised all this your father got to thinking about that old treasure of yours.”

“Sorry,” said John. “Treasure?”

Maruti made a face. “It is a sort of family legend.” She explained. “When my family had to move out of Krisnan things were very dangerous - there were riots, Hindu families were being attacked, robbed and murdered, their houses burned. So my great grandmother decided that instead of taking our money and valuables with us on the road where they would make the family a target, she would bury it in a secret place on our land. Of course, she planned that we would come back for it when everything had settled down – she couldn’t really believe our government would force us to relocate for good, away from the place our family had always belonged to. When all the disturbances ended she was sure we would be able to go back.”

“Unfortunately my great grandmother was very old and very sick, and it soon became clear that she wasn’t going to survive the journey. She made a map of the place where she had buried the family treasure and then tore it into three pieces – one for each of her sons. I suppose she wanted to make sure that they would share it out equally. In any case it was no use – our family never had the money to go back, nor is the Pakistani government particularly keen on visits from Indian nationals these days.”

“Exactly.” Tariq grinned. “ _You_ couldn’t go back – but my father could. Your father got the rest of your family to fax over the pieces of the map and he and my father put it together. My father went back to Krisnan, discovered the treasure and brought it back. They arranged between them to split the findings into four. One portion for the descendants of each of the original three brothers and one for my father as a finder’s fee.”

“I don’t believe it,” Maruti said. “The treasure was actually real?”

“In perfect nick,” Tariq said. “Unfortunately, this is the part of the story that brings my family shame.”

“What happened?”

“When your father disappeared and couldn’t be found anywhere, my father began to wonder if he mightn't keep all of the treasure to himself. After all, no one knew he had it, and it had been lying unclaimed for so long. When you came to ask about your father he told me he had spent the entire visit working up to tell you about it but when it came down to it he just couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He was thinking of us, you understand. My brother and I were both at University at the time, and none of that comes cheap.” He shrugged. “When he had his car accident, he realised the error of his ways. We came to visit him in the hospital and he confessed everything – begged my brother and I to put right his mistakes, and see to it that his dear friend’s daughter got what was rightfully hers. He was on morphine at the time and not terribly coherent – he didn’t actually tell us where the treasure was kept. Since his death my brother and I have been searching for it. All we could find was a set of pearl earrings and a necklace. My brother couldn’t see any point in contacting you until we had definite news, but I thought I ought to send you something in any case.”

“The pearls.”

“Yes,” he said. “I hope you liked them?”

“Um, it was – a sweet gesture,” Maruti said faintly.

“Good.” Tariq smiled broadly. “Anyway the exciting thing is, we think we have finally located the treasure! My brother has it at our house and we were wondering if you would like to come over and see it, to portion it out the way it was supposed to be done by our fathers.”

Maruti turned and looked questioningly at John and Sherlock. “What do you think?”

“We’ll come with you,” John said quickly. “If you want us to.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Brilliant.” Tariq beamed at them. “Are you guys OK with taking the tube or shall I call us a cab?”

 

***

 

The Sholto residence turned out to be a modest but comfortable two storey house in Hounslow. Sherlock looked around it, noting the newly acquired flatscreen TV, deluxe white leather sofas, and Persian carpets. It appeared that Mr. Sholto had spent a portion of the treasure already.

“Mum!” Tariq yelled as Maruti, John, and Sherlock made themselves at home in the living room. “Our visitors are here!”

“Good evening.” An elderly lady in salwar kameez brought them glasses of coke and snacks on a tray. She stopped by Maruti’s chair and cupped her face.

“Such a pretty girl,” she said. “So like your father.”

“Thank you,” Maruti said politely.

“Where is Bilal?” Tariq asked. “He must have found the treasure by now.”

“Oh, he’s been up in his room doing this and that,” Mrs. Sholto said. “I called up to him half an hour ago to tell him you were on your way, but he said he was busy. You know he’s like.”

Tariq huffed. “I’ll go and get him.”

“So, tell me about yourself, my dear,” Mrs. Sholto said to Maruti. “I’ve often wondered what became of you after that one time you visited.”

“Oh, you know.” Maruti forced a smile. “I got a job – bit of cleaning work. And I’m sharing a flat with a Sri Lankan family in Brick Lane.”

John turned to look at Maruti questioningly.

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Mrs. Sholto said, shaking her head. “You could have come and stayed with us. Your father was like a brother to us, you know.”

“I’m perfectly fine, really.” Maruti said.

Sherlock was tempted to point out that Maruti was very far from fine, with her grossly overcrowded flat, and her below minimum wage job. But unfortunately that was exactly the kind of information that would spark John’s protective instinct. He was already sitting far too close to her as it was.

“Mum,” Tariq poked his head around the door. “Bilal isn’t in his room.”

“That’s strange.” Mrs. Sholto frowned.

“Bilal!” Tariq shouted again, and began to pound around the house, looking for him. “I can’t find him anywhere.” He called from the kitchen. “You sure he didn’t go out?”

“I don’t think so…” Mrs. Sholto looked doubtful.

“I’m going to check the garden.” Tariq said.

“These boys,” Mrs. Sholto smiled at them. “What they get up to, I don’t know….” She trailed off as they heard a shout from the garden. Sherlock jumped to his feet and raced through the house without a second thought, John just behind him.

They found Tariq out in the garden, white faced, standing over a prone figure on the lawn. John raced over to the body, and bent over it, feeling for a pulse. He looked at Sherlock and shook his head.

“Bilal!” A voice cries out from the house. Mrs. Sholto was racing towards them, eyes wide. Sherlock moved to intercept her.

“I’m sorry,” he caught hold of her as she tried to run past him. “You can’t go over there. This is a crime scene now.”

“ _Bilal_!” she screamed and began keening in Punjabi. Maruti appeared at Sherlock’s side, pulling the weeping woman out of his arms and into her own, muttering in her ear. Relieved, Sherlock turned back to where John was crouching over the body.

Young man, face down. Small red mark of the side of his neck. Dirt under his fingernails.

“What can you tell me?”

“Hmm,” John frowned. “The body is very stiff, but rigor mortis couldn’t have set in this quickly. And this little mark….”

“Is suggestive, yes.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “Strychnine poisoning can cause the muscles in the body to contract.”

“Have you seen this?” John pointed to the end of the garden. Under a bush, there is a depression in the earth, a trough surrounded by heaped earth. Inside it there is an open, empty suitcase.

“The treasure.”

“Looks like it.”

Sherlock bent down to examine the marks in the grass. The ground wasn’t particularly damp, unfortunately, the last time it rained was four days ago. However he can just make out a pair of footprints, smaller than either John’s or the murder victim’s. And next to it….

“John, what would you say this is?”

John leaned over him to look. “Small circular depression – a cane mark?”

“Almost certainly. And looking at the way these footprints are spaced out – I’d say we are looking for someone who walks with a pronounced limp.”

John let out a breath. “I think Tariq phoned for an ambulance, but we should call Scotland Yard.”

“Please do.”

As John dialled Lestrade Sherlock moved to examine the body further. There was something trapped under one of the hands – a small scrap of paper. Sherlock eased it out carefully, glancing over it. He looked at the rest of the assembled group. John was on the phone, and the Sholtos were huddled in the doorway with Maruti. Nobody noticed him slip the paper into his pocket.

***

 

The Yard sent Alethia Jones to the crime scene. This, Sherlock suspected, was Lestrade’s revenge for being lied to for over a year. DI Jones disliked Sherlock even more thoroughly than Donovan did, and had even less intelligence of her own to compensate for the deficiency.

“What have we got here then?” Jones’ jaw jutted out pugnaciously as she looked Sherlock up and down.

“It appears to be a murder,” Sherlock said.

“We’ll be the judge of that. What are you doing here?”

“I am investigating a case.”

“Huh. And a dead body just happens to show up. Bit convenient, hmm?”

“Did they not explain the laws of cause and effect to you when you were at school? The man’s murder is very likely to be in connection to the case, as I am trying to explain to you….”

“Thank you, we can do our own investigating. No need to liaise with amateurs.”

“I’m not an amateur.”

“Is that so? Because you certainly aren’t employed by us anymore. I seem to recall a scandal….”

“I was cleared.”

“Hey, there,” John stepped forward. “How about we stop with the arguments and concentrate on doing our jobs, yeah? There’s a grieving family back there. How do you think this looks to them?”

DI Jones gave John a disapproving look and then stomped off to talk to her forensics man.

Sherlock watched them go.

“That wasn’t my fault,” he snapped.

“I know it wasn’t.” John sounded tired. “Let’s just focus on figuring this out, shall we?”

“Difficult if they refuse to share information with us,” Sherlock pointed out. “Without the toxicology results we don’t even know if this was a murder.”

“I’ll give Lestrade a call. I’m sure he can get Jones to cooperate.”

 

***

 

In the end John managed to secure a promise that he and Sherlock would be kept abreast of all developments in the case, and Sherlock, John and Maruti returned to Baker Street together. Since it was late, John offered to let her stay the night in Baker Street rather than having her walking through her dismal neighbourhood alone and late at night. Sherlock offered to pay for a taxi but the suggestion seemed to have somehow gone unheard by both parties.

Once home, Sherlock went into the kitchen to examine the fragment of paper under his microscope. It was a photocopy of a house plan, jagged fault lines dividing different parts of it from each other – clearly the original map torn into pieces by Maruti’s great grandmother. There was a word written in Gurmukhi script at the corner of the map, in a different pen from the rest of the map. The fourth corner of the map shows the beginning of a fourth word although the rest has been torn away. Someone had attempted to rip this sheet of paper out of the dead man’s hands and come away with something for their troubles.

Sherlock looked up. John was sitting on the sofa with Maruti. She had changed out of her own clothes and into a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms belonging to John. They were laughing about something, an uncomplicated smile spreading across John’s face. It occurred to Sherlock with a stab of something like fear that he hadn’t seen John laugh like that for a long time.

“Miss Mahal,” he said, louder than he’d intended. They both looked up. “I was wondering if you could identify writing on this piece of paper.”

He handed the map to Maruti who looked at it closely. “They’re names,” she said. “Dev, Amrit, Balraj… this is my grandfather and great uncles.” She looked up. “Is this the map? Where did you find it?”

“It was in the dead man’s hand,” Sherlock said. “There is the beginning of a fourth word in the top corner. Does it mean anything to you?”

Maruti looks closely. “It looks like a P….? I don’t know.”

“It isn’t the beginning of a word you recognise?”

“No.”

“The map appears to have been torn and stuck together.”

“Yes.”

“It was torn into four pieces, not three. Can you explain that?”

Maruti frowned down at the map in her hand. “No.”

Sherlock looked at John, who met his eyes for a brief moment before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Is there any way we could speak to your grandfather, or someone who remembers what happened when this map was made?”

“I can try emailing one of my cousins,” Maruti said. “My Grandfather doesn’t have a computer but perhaps I can arrange something with them.”

Sherlock nodded. “As soon as possible please.”

John jumped up to fetch Maruti his laptop, and Sherlock took the map back for further examination.

“By the way,” John said carelessly, after giving Maruti his computer. “I said Maruti could have my bed tonight, and I’ll sleep on the sofa. OK?”

Sherlock returned his gaze to the map under the microscope. “No.”

“No?”

“I am on a case, John. I frequently require that sofa for thinking, especially at night.”

“Right, well, then – I guess I’ll take your room then.”

“You will not.”

John blinked several times. “You’ll be using both the bed and the sofa?”

“I might do. I can’t tell what I may require. In any case, I don’t want you poking around in my room without me. You’ll only disturb my sock index again. Why don’t you suggest to Ms Mahal that you bunk together? That is the point of this little exercise, isn’t it?”

From the sofa, Sherlock saw Maruti look up, eyebrows raised.

“Sherlock, you -,“ John’s jaw had hardened a little, and he took a step forward. Sherlock stood straight looking at his friend. His heart thumped more insistently than usual. Would John break the silence of the past two months and shout at him?

Abruptly, John’s shoulders dropped and he looked away from Sherlock across the kitchen. “I’ll ask Mrs Hudson. I think she has a spare air mattress.”

Sherlock watched him walk away with narrowed eyes, before returning to his microscope.

“I’m sorry to have caused problems for you,” a voice said from beside him, making him start. Maruti had followed him into the kitchen. “If I’d known it would make things difficult I’d have gone home.”

“That would have been helpful,” Sherlock agreed.

“It isn’t any of my business,” Maruti persisted. “But are things quite all right between you and John?”

Sherlock pulled out a case of slides. He needed to compare the ink on the map with his collected samples.

“Mr Holmes?”

“He’s angry with me,” Sherlock said. “But he won’t admit it.”

Maruti looked at the door which John had left through, brow wrinkled. “He doesn’t seem angry. He seems –“

Sherlock found himself looking at her despite himself, waiting for an answer to this utterly irrational situation.

“Unhappy,” she finished at last. “Especially when he thinks no one is watching him. Has he ever been depressed?” Sherlock shrugged, looking away from her.

 _You look sad, when you think he can’t see you_. A voice whispered in his ear, a memory escaped from its proper place in his mind palace. _I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see._

One of the slides slipped out of his grip, smashing on the floor. Sherlock turned to Maruti.

“You’re distracting me,” he snapped. “If you haven’t anything useful to say, perhaps you should go back to the living room.”

Maruti only raised her eyebrows at his rudeness, something uncomfortably like pity in her glance as she left the room.

John returned a while later with a blow up mattress and a sleeping bag. “I’ll set this up in the corner,” he said to Sherlock. “That all right? Not needing this particular square of carpet for anything, are you?”

It appeared that John’s thought neutralisation process had been less thorough than usual because a note of something, if not quite sarcasm then close to it, had entered his voice.

Sherlock shrugged. “Do whatever you like.”

“I’d better be getting to bed,” Maruti said. “Thank you so much, John, for the room. Are you sure I can’t…”

“No, please,” John said. “I want you to have it.”

“Well, thank you. Good night, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock ignored her. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as John unrolled his bedding, pumping up the airbed. When John finally settled, curling up in his sleeping bag with his back turned to where Sherlock was working, he looked uncomfortably small. Sherlock crushed a shard of broken glass into dust under his shoe. Unacceptable.

 

***

 

The police call the next day to confirm that Bilal Sholto had been injected with a solution of strychnine.

“Rather an intimate way to kill someone,” Sherlock mused. “They would have had to have got close enough to inject him. Either he trusted the person in question or at least believed that they were not a threat to him.”

“Might be someone in the health profession,” John said. “They clearly knew what they were doing with a syringe, they can’t have fumbled at all. And to have got access to the solution…”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

They were sitting around the breakfast table, Maruti, John and Sherlock. Maruti had called in sick to work, much to Sherlock’s irritation, apparently determined to stay and ‘help’ them with the case.

Maruti’s phone vibrated. “It’s my cousin,” she told them. “My grandfather will be on Skype in half an hour – can I use your computer?”

“Of course,” John said.

Sherlock wrote Maruti a list of questions to ask her grandfather while John and Maruti cleaned the kitchen and rolled away John’s sleeping bag.

They decided to sit the laptop on the table, pointing it at Maruti’s face. John and Sherlock sat just out of the way of the camera. At half past eleven the call came in. Sherlock sat forward, face intent.

There was a blurred static sound as the camera switched on and a small elderly man with an ill-kempt white moustache appeared on screen.

“Maruti?” he began saying something in Punjabi, but Maruti cut him short. “We have to speak in English, Dadda. I have some English detectives listening.”

The old man frowned, but nodded. “I don’t like this computer nonsense – never know who you are really talking to. But it is good to see your face again. Mera chota, when are you coming back to India? It isn’t right that you are out there alone. I hope these English are treating you with respect.”

“They are, Dadda. But I can’t come home just yet.” Maruti hesitated, then flicked her gaze to John, who nodded encouragingly. “ I need to ask you some questions.”

The old man’s face tightened, his mouth dragging down at the corners. “There is still no news about my son?”

“Not yet. But I have some experts investigating what happened to him. Sherlock Holmes is the best detective in London.”

“Ah, Sherlock Holmes! Of course. Pinku used to read to me from that John’s Watson blog. Very interesting. I liked the story of the Aluminium Crutch.”

Maruti grinned at John. “So did I. He’s a good writer, isn’t he?”

John actually _blushed_. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ask him about the map.”

“Dadda, it seems like Bhaia was looking into that old family story about the treasure we left in Krisnan. I wanted to ask you some questions about it.”

“Ah, Maruti, that was a long time ago.”

“Please try to remember. It could help find Bhaiha.”

“Well, I don’t know what more I can tell you. My mother hid the treasure and divided the map between us for safekeeping. I was only fourteen years old at the time, but I knew it was important to keep my piece safe in the top pocket of my shirt.”

“Sherlock thinks that the map was torn into four pieces, Dadda, not three. He says there was another name on the sheet of paper. Do you know anything about that?”

The old man’s gaze slid away from the camera for a moment, his shoulders hunching.

“Dadda?”

“You are certain this map thing is important for finding him?”

“Certain. Dadda, what is it?”

The old man sighed heavily. “The last piece of the map was given to my older sister, Parvati.”

There was a short silence. “You never told me you had a sister.”

“We never speak of her. She - left the family. Married a Muslim man. Stayed in Pakistan.”

“You never tried to get in touch?”

Another short silence. “No.”

Maruti frowned. “Why did I never hear about this?”

The old man hunched, looking down into his lap. “I haven’t thought of her in such a long time. I was fond of her – it hurt when we were separated. But there was nothing I could do. Some things are better forgotten about.”

Another face appeared in the corner of the webcam, frowning at them all.

“Grandfather is tired now. I think we should let him rest. Maruti?”

Maruti turned to Sherlock questioningly. He nodded.

“That will do for now,” he said. “Tell them you will email if you have further questions.”

Maruti nodded, and relayed the message. She bid goodbye to her grandfather, and ended the call.

“I don’t understand it,” Maruti said. “How could he never have tried to contact his sister?”

“You said they were violent times,” John said quietly. “When people are at war, they sometimes behave in ways they would rather forget about afterwards.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes for a brief fraction of a second before looking away again.

Maruti curled up, hugging her knees to her chest.

“And you think that the disappearance of the treasure – the murder of the Sholto boy – is connected to this woman – to my Great Aunt?”

“Highly likely,” Sherlock said. “Consider: this woman is entitled to a treasure that is not only valuable in its own right but her only remaining link to her family. It is abruptly dug up and removed from the country. She tracks it only to find that it is being portioned out between the family who abandoned her and a stranger’s family, one who refuses to acknowledge her claim. She decides to kill the pretenders and take the goods for herself.”

“Couldn’t it have been just a regular thief?” John asked.

“Very few people knew of the treasure,” Sherlock pointed out. “And even if they had, why trouble to tear the map unless they knew it could point to their identity?”

“It could have been an accident.”

“It could have been,” Sherlock agreed. “One must, however, prefer the explanation that accounts for all the facts.” He got up, and went to the coat stand, picking up his coat. John followed him.

“Where are you going?”

“To sniff out our killer,” Sherlock said. “Coming?”

John’s eyes slid to Maruti, who was still frowning at the black computer screen.

“I think I’ll stay here. She shouldn’t be alone.”

Sherlock said nothing, but tugged his scarf tight around his neck.

 

***

 

Sherlock spent the afternoon at Lestrade’s desk in Scotland Yard, searching through their databases. He knew the killer was a recent immigrant from Pakistan, mostly likely working as a pharmacist or in the medical profession, and who had injured one leg. With a little creative hacking he managed to get a list of five possible names, three of which appeared to be located in London. Sherlock gave the names to his Homeless Network with a request for detailed information.

Now there was nothing to do but wait.

Maruti was still there when Sherlock returned to Baker Street. Apparently, as a display of gratitude for their hospitality, she was cooking them dinner. Sherlock was tempted to point out that a far better thank you would have been to actually leave, but something about John’s face as he helped her out in the kitchen, softened and somehow content, stopped him. Instead reminded them both that he didn’t eat while on a case and then flopped down onto the sofa to think.

Maruti was just dishing the food out for her and John when the front doorbell rang. They all paused to listen as a heavy pair of boots clomped their way up the stairs. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He recognised that tread.

“Ah, Holmes,” DI Jones said as she appeared in the doorway.

“DI Jones.” Sherlock looked at the woman with dislike. She would never have come to their flat with helpful news, which could only mean she was here to gloat about something. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.

Jones smiled, face creasing into unpleasant lines.

“We were just about to eat,” John said. “There’s plenty to go round, if you’d like some?”

“No, thanks, I’m not staying,” she said. “I was told by my superiors that I had to keep you in the loop regarding this case. Well, as it happens, your input won’t be needed after all. I arrested the murderer this afternoon.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes?”

“Tariq Sholto,” Jones said. “Murdered his brother and made off with their dad’s cashbox”

Sherlock heard Maruti take in a sharp breath.

“I’d like to know how you reached this intriguing conclusion,” he said.

“You said yourself – the only people who knew about that suitcase were you and your friends, and Tariq. You all have alibis for the time he was killed. He doesn’t. Have you got a problem with that, Holmes?”

Sherlock sat up. “Several. If Tariq wanted to steal the treasure, why on earth did he bring Miss Mahal and two detectives into his house at the time of the murder? Why inform us of its existence at all? And what did he do with the contents of the suitcase after he supposedly murdered his brother for it? He was in that garden for less than two minutes, and forensics have been over it with a fine tooth comb. We would have found it.”

DI Jones made a very unattractive scoffing sound. “He probably had an accomplice. And as to the rest of it, you don’t really believe all this nonsense about buried treasure do you? Sounds like a load of old cobblers to me. No, I’ll tell you what happened. Those Sholto boys and this Mahal were into something shady, dealing drugs most likely, and invented some cock and bull story to cover their tracks. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. These people, they’ve always got a story and it always reeks of shit.”

“These people?” Maruti said. “What people would those be, exactly, DI Jones?”

DI Jones ran his eyes up and down Maruti. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re a nice enough girl, but I’ve been policing immigrant communities since you were all in nappies. I know what I’m talking about. In spite of what these bleeding heart liberals would have you believe it nearly always turns out to be one of them in the end.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said dryly. “Given that the officers in charge of making the arrests arrive already convinced of their guilt.”

Jones’ eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

Sherlock got to his feet. “I’m not suggesting anything. I am stating that you, DI Jones, are a flabby-minded incompetent bigot with absolutely no talent for police work whatsoever. You have arrested the wrong man for what I have no doubt is not the first time in your career and I shall take very great pleasure in proving it. Now I suggest you leave before Dr. Watson kicks you out. He looks like he would be rather eager to do so.”

It was true. John had come to stand beside Maruti and was gripping a tea towel rather fiercely. For a brief moment his eyes met Sherlock’s and there was a warmth in them Sherlock hadn’t seen for a very long time. For a moment he forgot about the others, about Miss Mahal standing on his kitchen and glaring, about the idiotic policeman gaping at him. He took a step closer to John, who abruptly dropped his gaze, turning away.

“He’s right,” John said to DI Jones. “I think you should go.”

“Fine.” Jones got to her feet. “I’ll make you regret saying that, Holmes.”

“I doubt it. But I will look forward to seeing you try.”

DI Jones merely grunted before turning to leave.

 

***

 

 

Sherlock received his reports from his Homeless Network half an hour later. He scrolled through them as quickly as he could, and then goes to his laptop to do some further research.

“Ever heard the name Jameela Sadat?” he asked Maruti.

“No. Should I have?”

“Almost certainly not. But I have reason to believe she is the person who currently holds your treasure, who murdered Sholto and who may well have murdered your father.”

Both John and Maruti came over to look over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Here.” He opened his phone and showed them the picture which one of his Network had sent. It showed a small woman of about fifty years old with neatly cut salt and pepper hair framing a face which bore more than a passing resemblance to Maruti’s.

“She’s a pharmacist working in Croydon. Came to the UK two and a half years ago – shortly after your treasure, if the Sholtos are to be believed. One withered leg, result of an infection contracted as a child. Walks with a cane. No known friendships or familial ties outside of work. No criminal record. But here’s the nail in the coffin – her place of origin.”

Sherlock opens the tab where he’d hacked into the Home Office records. A scanned copy of Jameela Sadat’s visa application was open on the screen.

“Place of birth: Krisnan, Pakistan.”

Maruti eyes widened. John sat beside her, his hand moving to cover hers. Sherlock watched as their fingers twined together.

“You’re sure this is the woman?”

“It is the only explanation that fits all the facts. And, if I am correct…”

Sherlock jumped up.

“Give me Lestrade’s phone number. We need to put a stop on the airports. She has the treasure now, she’ll be trying to make her way home with it.”

Sherlock made some calls and soon ascertained that a ticket to Dubai had been booked in the name of Jameela Sadat for seven o’clock the next morning from Heathrow.

“I suggest we go and intercept her at the airport,” he said. “What do you say?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” John said. Maruti’s face was pale, but she nodded as well.

“We’d better get some rest then,” John said. “Since we’ll have to be up early. Maruti, you can take my room again.”

“No, I’m taking the airbed tonight.”

“I insist,” John said.

“ _I_ insist,” Maruti said. “Please, John. Don’t tell me your shoulder isn’t bothering you, I’ve seen you rubbing at it. You don’t have to be such a gentleman all the time, you know.” There was something suggestive in the way she said that, Sherlock thought, the edge of a smile in her voice. He watched as a rather foolish grin began to tug at the edge of John’s mouth.

“You can have my bed,” Sherlock snapped. They both turned to look at him.

“I don’t intend on sleeping tonight in any case.”

“But yesterday you said…” John began.

“I’ve changed my mind. Take my bed. Just don’t touch anything.”

John’s mouth closed, and he frowned for a moment. “All right. I won’t.”

Sherlock just shrugged and took his laptop into the kitchen. He needed to work in peace for a while.

 

***

 

The airport was crowded when they arrived. They made their way over to check in and waited. Sherlock scanned the queuing travellers carefully. There was no sign of Sadat. Time ticked past and John went to buy them all cups of coffee. Eventually, as it edged towards last call for the flight, Sherlock went over to check with the woman on the desk. He showed her the badge he’d filched from Lestrade and insisted she give him the names of all the travellers who’d checked in. No Jameela.

“The gate is closing now, sir,” the woman told him. “She must have changed her mind.”

Sherlock swore under his breath.

“She must have realised we’d be waiting for her.”

They go to Jameela’s listed address but her landlord informed them that she’d left the previous night, taking all of her belongings with her.

“So, she’s gone to ground,” John said. “If she’s in London, we’ll find her soon enough.”

“ _If_ ,” said Sherlock, and pulled out his phone. Eric, the man who he’d told to trail Sadat, picked up after three rings.

“Where did she go while you were following her?” Sherlock barked at the man. “Tell me everything you remember….”

Jameela Sadat had had a busy day, it seemed. Not only had she worked a double shift at the hospital, but she had found the time to walk down to the train station and booked a ticket to Tilbury Town.

“Of course.”

“Of course what?” John asked, a little breathlessly. He and Maruti were hurrying along after him as he strode towards the train station.

“The plane ticket was a blind. She’s going to Tilbury Town. What’s in Tilbury?”

He looked at Maruti and John, who both shrugged.

“Gravesend _Docks_. She’s planning on getting a cargo boat out of here. It’s a good thing I have contacts.” He smirked and picked up his phone. “Alfred? I’m going to need to hire one of your boats.”

The most likely candidate, Sherlock ascertained as they clambered aboard the Alfred’s little speedboat was the _Valentine_ , a cargo ship that had set out from Gravesend thirty minutes ago and was heading eastward at a speed of 8.4 knots.

“Couldn’t we just get the police to go after them?” Maruti asked, over the sound of the boat’s engine juddering to life.

“They already have their suspect, remember?” Sherlock said. “In any case,” he added as they started to move and the wind picked up, pushing the hair back off his forehead. “This is more fun.”

“Do you do this sort of thing a lot?” Maruti asked John.

“It hasn’t been boats before,” John said. “But yeah, this is pretty much what we used to do.” He smiled at Sherlock for a brief moment before the tiredness seemed to return to his eyes. He leaned on the boat railing.

“How long do you reckon before we catch them up?”

“Should be half an hour or so, if we’re lucky, and if Alfred is prepared to put some effort into it.”

Sherlock went over to berate their captain, who informed him that they were moving as fast as was legally permissible in these waters. “We’ll catch ‘em up, don’t worry.” He grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock had been present two years ago when Alfred had been arrested for smuggling, and had gained an enduring place in the man’s affections once he had proven that it was, in fact, another ship that had carried the stash of drugs into the country.

When Sherlock returned from the cabin, he could see John and Maruti standing together near the prow of the ship. The high wind had pulled Maruti’s long hair out of its ponytail and it was whipping across her face. Sherlock watched as John, laughing, helped take hold of it, pulling it away from her face. They looked at each other for a long moment, eyes wide, smiles fading, before John tilted his face down, gently covering her mouth with his own. 

Sherlock turned away, filled with a sudden nausea which he suspected had very little to do with the dark green waters churning beneath them. It wasn’t, Sherlock reminded himself, as if John hadn’t had relationships before. It was irritating but hardly the end of the world. Except…. In the past the woman had always left when it became clear that John found Sherlock more interesting. What would happen now that John didn’t seem to find him exciting anymore?

“I’ve got them in sight, now.” Alfred called out from the cabin a little later. “Want me to radio them?”

“Tell them we’re the police and they have to let us aboard.”

“ _Are_ we the police?”

“Close enough.” Sherlock flashed his stolen ID at Alfred, who grinned.

 

***

 

The _Valentine_ proved to be a vast metal monster of a ship. It towered over the quivering green waters of the Thames like a dragon stamping its claim over a molten hoard. Sherlock, John and Maruti climbed aboard using a metal ladder nailed to the outside of the ship.

“We’re looking for this woman.” Sherlock showed the crew the photo of Sadat he had on his phone. Someone reported seeing the woman on the second deck of the ship, and Sherlock raced down to find her.

 

***

 

As soon as he saw her, standing at the rails of the ship leaning on her cane and looking down into the green water, Sherlock knew he was too late.

“Jameela Sadat?”

The woman turned to smile at him, salt and pepper hair whipping in the wind.“It’s gone,” she said. “She and her family won’t see a penny of it.”

“You threw it overboard,” Sherlock stated.

“Of course I did.”

Sherlock went to the edge of the boat where she had stood, and looked over the edge. He couldn’t see properly. He climbed up onto the first rail, then hesitating a moment, the second and then the third. He put out a hand to steady himself on the edge of the cabin next to him. 

Below, all he could see was lapping green water and white foam.

“Sherlock!”

John and Maruti had appeared on deck. John was staring at Sherlock, his face very white. Sherlock looked at him, and then back down at the water.

“Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock hesitated, looking down into John’s wide eyes. He considered how he must look to him, silhouetted against the sky, coat flapping, the endless drop beneath him into the sea. He jumped back down onto the deck, and John seemed to collapse a little inward, breathing deeply.

“You,” Maruti said quietly, taking a step forward and looking at Sadat. “You’re the one who took the treasure, who killed all those people.”

“Two people,” Sadat said quietly, black eyes glittering. “I didn’t want to, but they were stealing what was rightfully mine.”

“Was - was my father…”

“Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning, Miss Sadat,” Sherlock cut across her. “Start by telling us who you are. You and Miss Mahal are related, are you not?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sadat said bitterly. “I don’t suppose they told you anything about my mother, did they?”

“Your mother was Parvati Mahal?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Sadat replied.

“My grandfather told me that she’d married a Muslim man and remained in Pakistan,” Maruti said.

Sadat laughed. “What a pretty way of putting it.”

Maruti bit her lip. “Tell me.”

“All right.” Sadat took another step forward and Sherlock noted John tensing, ready to get between the two women if necessary. But Sadat didn’t move again.

“As I expect you know, our family fled the violence that swept across the Punjab once the separation was announced, but unfortunately for them, they fled too slowly. They encountered a band of Muslim men on the road, and rather than risk fighting them they fled into the nearby woods. My mother told me that she ran with the rest, but that she stumbled and fell and that soon the men caught up with her.”

Maruti’s lips parted, eyes wide with horrified realisation.

“They dragged her away with them, raped her, tied her hands and made her walk behind them like a slave. She thought they would kill her. She was made to work for the family of one of the men who had taken her, a man from Krisnan, in fact. His family had known ours before the separation, before politics had made us enemies. Strange how these things happen. Later, the Indian Government demanded the release and return of all the women who’d been abducted, both Hindu and Muslim, to their own families. My mother sent a letter to the family, begging for them to send her money so that she could join them in Delhi.”

Sherlock saw Maruti sway slightly on her feet. “No.”

“They told her to stay where she was. In their eyes she was ruined. No man would ever want to marry her, no family would ever want to associate with theirs, once it got out that she had been taken and used by Muslim men. They left her in that godawful little village to rot.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“She might have died on the streets,” Sadat continued mercilessly. “Had she not become pregnant and given birth to a boy. The Sadat family were short on male heirs and decided to adopt the child and to allow my mother a place in their home, though it didn’t stop them treating her like a slave – her daughter, too, once she was born.”

“I’m …,” Maruti said helplessly looking at Jameela. “I didn’t know.”

Jameela shrugged. “My mother was the strongest woman I’ve ever known. She worked like a dog for that family, begged, pleaded, manipulated until she could convince them to acknowledge me as their own, to give me an education. Without her, I might have been kept in that house and treated like a servant forever. But I studied hard, became a nurse. I did well in my profession, was able to give my mother some of the comforts she had been denied so long. I planned to come to the UK, where I could earn more.”

“Then one day my mother called me to tell me that a man called Sholto had come to her house. He bullied her into giving him the piece of paper on which the fragment of her mother’s map was drawn. He’d promised her a share of the goods, but then dug up the treasure for himself and disappeared like a thief in the night.”

“My mother was in tears, not because of the money she was owed, the treasure which was her _right_ , but because that little scrap of paper was her last remaining link to her dead mother, to her life, before she became a Sadat slave. A few days later she was dead – they said it was a heart attack, but I knew better. In that moment I swore I would go to the UK, find the thieves, and make them pay.”

“And so you murdered Kamal Sholto,” Sherlock interjected.

“I booked a ride in his taxi,” Jameela shrugged. “And then I injected him with a paralytic. He didn’t even notice. I hear it took him days to die. It’s still better than he deserved.”

“And Bilal.”

“I met him in the garden and told him about my claim on the treasure. He laughed at me and called me a liar.”

“And… and my father?” Maruti asked, her eyes very wide. “Did you kill him too?”

Jameela looked at her for a long moment, and then her expression softened. “I did not. Your father was a good man. I met him by an underpass, near the river and told him my story, and he seemed – upset by it. He promised me that he would make things right. But then he told me his arm began to hurt, a shooting pain, and then he couldn’t breathe, and he collapsed - I realised he was having a heart attack. I tried to resuscitate him but it was already too late – there was nothing I could do. I treated his body with respect, Maruti. I said prayers over him, bathed him with water, before pushing him into the Thames. That is what you Hindus do, isn’t it? You put your dead in the river?”

“In the Ganges,” Maruti said. “But my father didn’t believe in God.” She shivered abruptly and looked at Sherlock. “Is she telling the truth?”

Sherlock looked at Jameela for a long moment. “I believe so. There is little reason to admit to two murders and deny the third, in any case.”

Maruti nodded and then stumbled as her legs gave out under her. John caught hold of her, pulling her over to one of the benches to sit down.

“I suppose you are taking me to prison then,” Jameela said indifferently to Sherlock.

“You suppose correctly,” Sherlock said. “We have delayed this ship’s passage long enough.”

Jameela looked down into the water on the other side of the railing, a thoughtful expression on her face.

Sherlock laid a hand on her arm. “You want justice for your mother,” he said. “You want her story told. You can do that better from prison than you can from the bottom of the Thames.”

Jameela looked at him for a long moment and then nodded, holding out her hands. “I suppose you want to cuff me.”

“Well,” Sherlock said. “I don’t actually have any handcuffs.”

Jameela’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re a proper policeman?”

“Proper enough.” Sherlock took hold of her gently by the arms. “Come with me.”

 

***

 

John called Lestrade, and DI Jones and her men were on the shore to meet them when they dock.

“She confessed to everything,” Sherlock told Jones, who scowled at him heavily.

“You do know that impersonating a police officer is a very serious offence?”

“Charge me if you want. You won’t make it stick. I have friends in high places. And, I just caught you a murderer.”

“I can’t make charges stick to you, perhaps.” Jones’ eyes lingered on Maruti and John, who are sitting huddled together by the boat wrapped in blankets. Sherlock opened his mouth for a moment to object but Jones had already turned on her heel and gone.

 

***

 

Sherlock was exhausted by the time they reached Baker Street, the post-case adrenaline crash overtaking him like a tidal wave. He headed straight for his room, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. When he woke, several hours later, he could hear the murmur of voices. John and Maruti were still in the living room. From the hoarse timbre of John’s voice they must have been speaking for hours. Sherlock swallowed. His throat was dry, and he desperately wanted a glass of water from the kitchen but something stopped him. Some peculiar bone deep reluctance to go out there and confirm with a glance, how long they had been sitting together is the quiet hours Sherlock slept.

Sherlock buried his head beneath the pillow. It would be over soon. The case was finished with, and John would take the woman out for a few dates before realising it wasn’t going anywhere and then things could go back to normal again. They had to. Eventually. 

After an unknown period of time, there is a soft knock at the door – John, with a glass of water.

“I’m going to drop Maruti at the Tube stop before it gets dark.” He said. “You should drink this.”

John’s face seemed to have lost its frozen quality, a little. He actually smiled as Sherlock accepted the water.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Sherlock sipped at the water and watched his friend’s retreating back.

 

***

 

“I had a call at work this morning,” Maruti said as she entered their flat later that day. “Immigration is investigating me for working without a valid permit.”

John stood up, looking alarmed. “What?” he said “What does that mean?”

Maruti looked at the floor. “My visa expired 18 months ago. I couldn’t renew it here and I didn’t want to leave until I knew what happened to my father. I expect I’ll be deported.” she paused, looked at John for a moment, and then looked away. “I wanted to give you your fee.” She reached into her bag.

“You - that isn’t necessary,” John said.

“It is.” Maruti said. “I put you to a lot of trouble.” she put a bag down on the table. Sherlock moved closer to examine it. It contained the pearls Maruti had been sent by Tariq Sholto. “I am not sure I want them now I know the story behind them. I sent half to Jameela, they should help with her legal fees.”

John looked at her wordlessly.

“Goodbye Mr Holmes.” Maruti pressed his hand. “Thank you for everything. And John,” Maruti walked over to where John was standing and gave him a long look. “I am sorry that I will not get the chance to know you better.” She took her hand in his, eyes large and dark. “If you ever come to India….”

John nodded numbly. Sherlock watched John, as John watched Maruti leave. They stood in silence for a long time after the door to 221B had slammed closed beneath them.

“John…”

“I suppose this is DI Jones’s doing. Isn’t it?”

“I imagine so. Yes.”

“You know, if you’d been just a _bit_ nicer to her..”

“I didn’t intend for this to happen.”

John gave him a long level look.

“I want one of those pearls.”

Sherlock is silent for a long moment turning this request over in his mind. “Why?”

“I’m your assistant. I’m entitled to a cut of the profits.”

“That isn’t what I asked you.”

“Just – just give it to me, Sherlock. Please.” John crossed the room to stand in front of him.

Sherlock snatched the bag up and held it behind his back

“No.”

“No – why not?”

“Because you’re about to do something extremely stupid and I can’t condone it. You barely know her John.”

“I know that it’s our fault she’s being sent away. She should at least have a choice about if she wants to stay.”

“It isn’t our fault that she was too stupid to get herself a valid visa. That isn’t why you’re doing this.”

“No,” John said. “I’m doing this because the only time I’ve felt remotely OK in the past year is when I’ve been with that woman, and because of _you_ she is being sent to another continent.”

All of a sudden John lunged at him, knocking him flat against the wall. He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arms, trying to wrestle the bag of pearls out of them. Sherlock pulled back hard and the bag broke, pearls scattering over the floor. He took advantage of John’s momentary pause to push him backwards, tumbling both of them to the floor.

“Sherlock, get off me.”

“No,” Sherlock snarled. “Not until you say you aren’t doing this.”

“Get the _fuck_ off me.”

“I said no.”

With a sudden surge of strength John pushed back, rolling Sherlock onto his back. He had a hand pinned on Sherlock’s throat, his leg between his knees. His breath was rapid and hot against Sherlock’s neck. When he looked down at Sherlock his eyes were wide and dark.

“God Sherlock, I-“ They stared at each other for a long moment and abruptly John rolled off him, stumbling to his feet.

“I’m marrying her,” he said, and his voice quivered a little. “If she says yes. Sherlock. I have to.”

He leant down, snatching up one of the pearls resting next to Sherlock’s head, before walking towards the front door. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to ignore the way back of his throat was burning. The sound of the door slamming shut seemed to echo through his head for a long time.

 

***

 

A substantial dose of morphine and a splitting headache later, Sherlock found John in his room, packing his things into boxes.

“You don’t have to move out,” he said. “You could bring her here.”

“I couldn’t.” John ran a hand through his hair, blinking rapidly. His eyes were bloodshot, Sherlock realised.

“I would endeavour to treat her with respect,” Sherlock said. “I’d stay out of your way.” He licked his lips because this part was truly difficult. “Please, John.”

“Do you think I want to carry on doing this, Sherlock?” John said abruptly, throwing a book down hard into a box. “Do you think I want to stay here and watch you destroy yourself?”

“I’m not…”

“Either it’s the drugs or the cases or the fucking criminal mind games, I can’t. You made me stand and watch as you threw yourself off a roof, Sherlock. You made me watch it. And then you come back and you’re still fucking doing it. Hanging off the edges of boats. Shooting up in the living room like this place is some kind of – I won’t do this anymore. You’re always on the edge of some precipice or other and there isn’t anything I can do about it. There isn’t anything I can say. I just - I can’t keep on reliving this.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice seemed to be stuck in his throat. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” John said. “Find someone who makes me happy? Move on with my life?”

“You’re angry with me,” Sherlock said. “I understand. Don’t leave just to punish me.”

“You think this is about punishing you?”

“Well, what is it about then? You’ve been freezing me out since I came back I can only imagine it’s because you know it hurts me.”

John stared at him for a long moment, and then his shoulders dropped. “I’m not trying to punish you, Sherlock,” he said.”I’m trying to survive you.”

He picked up his box and walked to the door. He stopped and turned back to look at Sherlock. “If you want to come to the wedding…”

“Why would I want to do that?” Sherlock snapped.

John looked at him for a long moment, and then abruptly turned away. “No reason.”

 

***

 

After John had left there was a long silence. Sherlock lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling and wished very hard that he had the kind of brain that could think of nothing once in awhile.

There was a soft tapping at the door. Sherlock frowned. Mrs Hudson was out, and no one had rung the doorbell, which only left… Sherlock sat up.

“John?”

“Sorry,” Maruti poked her glossy black head around the door. Sherlock fell backwards against the sofa. Of course, John would give her the key. Send his fiancée in as a messenger now he could no longer face Sherlock on his own. _You never used to be a coward, John._

“John doesn’t know I’m here.” Maruti said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

Maruti hesitated. “I wanted to speak with you. I - I know that this must be difficult. I never meant to rob you of a friend.” 

Sherlock snorted. “You give yourself far too much credit.”

“Do I?”

“Do you really think you’re the first woman John has taken up with? First there was Sarah, she was cleverer than you, and braver, she once took out a Chinese gangster with her fists. Think you’re up to that? And then there was Ellen, she _was_ pretty, and Jeanette, stupid but at least she was a proper teacher which is a step above scrubbing floors. All of them were equal to you in terms of intelligence, attractiveness or any other criteria you care to mention. John sees a pretty girl and he runs off after her like a child with a new toy. The only difference between you and them is that you’ve managed to catch him while he is vulnerable, trick him into giving you citizenship. Well, I’m afraid I can’t congratulate you.”

Sherlock turned on the sofa, pulling his dressing gown tight around him and waited for the inevitable sound of the woman storming off. To his surprise, he heard nothing but the slight scrape of a chair. Sherlock turned to look – Maruti had sat down and was looking at him calmly.

“If you think I would marry someone simply to become a citizen of this country you are mistaken. I’ve been here two years and believe me, it really isn’t the prize you think it is.”

“No?” Sherlock’s lip curled contemptuously.”Why are you marrying him then? You can’t tell me its love. You’ve known him less than a week.”

Maruti shrugged. “It isn’t uncommon in my culture,” she said. “To marry after a shorter acquaintance than this. And John is - unlike the men I have known in the past. I think – my father would have liked him. Perhaps you are right, and this is a mistake. But I think it is worth taking a risk, when the reward could be real happiness.”

Sherlock snorted. 

“You know, during my first week in this country, my flatmate tried to kill himself.” Maruti said. “He wedged himself in the bathroom, slit his wrists. It was fortunate someone thought to call an ambulance, I would not have had the presence of mind.”

Sherlock frowned at her. “How is this relev-“

“What really frightened me was that no one seemed to care. The other tenants stole from him while his room was unlocked. The landlord took the opportunity to collect a double rent, giving his room to someone new while still charging him for the time he was in hospital. Even the paramedics seemed to treat him with contempt. He was an Indian boy just trying to make his way, like me. Like my father. And he was in terrible pain.”

“Since I have come here I have been overworked, underpaid, ignored by the police when I asked for help, harassed by them when I was only trying to make my way. I have been insulted and ignored. And then, I came here, to Baker Street. You and John didn’t care if I had money, or where I came from. You helped me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t do it for you.” He said. “The case was interesting.”

“You aren’t a nice person,” Maruti said. “You are rude, and unfeeling and cruel. But what you do is important. And John - John loves you.”

Sherlock looked at her, confused.

Maruti said. “I think you should speak to him.”

“I have spoken to him.” Sherlock said.

“Then perhaps,” Maruti said. “You need to listen.” She leaned forward in her chair. “ I lived with you for two days. Maybe I am not as intelligent as you, or his other girlfriends, but I see more than you think I do. You look at him like he’s a puzzle that you’re trying to crack, as if by pressing the right buttons you’ll get the response you want.”

“He keeps pulling away from me,” Sherlock said. “Whatever I do. He doesn’t react to anything I say.”

“Then perhaps,” Maruti said cooly. “It is time you stopped looking for the reaction _you_ want thought more about what _he_ might want.”

 

Sherlock frowned, listening as Maruti stood and turned to leave, her footsteps sounding like drumbeats reverberating through his aching head.

 

***

 

John’s hair was ruffled in all directions, his eyes blinking blearily as he opened the door of his new flat.

“Sherlock,” he said tiredly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m not coming to your wedding,” Sherlock announced.

“Yeah. You’ve said that already.”

“However, I - I believe it is customary to purchase a present.” He put an envelope into John’s hands. John looked at him suspiciously for a moment, before tearing it open.

“Umm, my passport?”

“There are three months visa’s allowing you to travel to India and Pakistan. Once you are married I’ll have Mycroft do the same for Maruti. And plane tickets. I thought Maruti might like the chance to put some ghosts to rest.”

“That’s….” John looked down at the tickets. “Thoughtful, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“There’s something else.”

John looked up, and there was a shade of something a little like anxiety and a little like hope in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and took out the other thing hanging like a lead weight in his pocket. He handed it over in silence. John looked at it for a long time.

“Your morocco case.”

“The promises of an addict aren’t worth much,” Sherlock said. “Promises from me are perhaps worth even less. But. I would like it if you accepted this, with the assurance that I don’t intend to make you watch me stand at the edge of any more precipices.”

“You’re getting clean?”

“I shall endeavour to.” Sherlock smiled thinly at him. “I’m sure Mycroft has a programme or two lined up.”

“Right.“ John swallowed hard. “Well. That’s – good, then.“ He looked down at the case, tracing the seam with his fingers.

“Goodbye John.” Sherlock turned to leave.

“I’ll give you a call,” John blurted out. “When we get back.”

Sherlock looked back at him and nodded slowly. John looked at him for a long moment, before turning abruptly and closing the door behind him.

 

***

 

There is a phenomenon known as scopaesthesia wherein a person may become aware of the fact that they are being watched even without receiving any direct auditory or visual cues to indicate the fact. Sherlock wondered, as he watched the newlywed couple descending the stairs of the registry office, whether they experienced any such awareness. Maruti was wearing a red dress and the pearl ring John had made for her fit perfectly. Sherlock watched as John said something to her and she threw back her head, laughing. John’s eyes were bright today, clear and happy. The hands that rested on his new wife’s waist were steady, his shoulders straight. If he could feel it, that prickling under the skin, that lurking awareness, informing him that there was a pair of unseen eyes fixed on him, he was kind enough not to turn his head and look.

It was almost as if Sherlock wasn’t there at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical Notes: The Partition of India and Pakisthan took place in the summer of 1947. Over 12 million people were displaced, and violent clashes between different religious groups resulted in huge loss of life. Women particularly endured heavy violence. It is estimated that between 75,000 and 100,000 women Sikh, Muslim and Hindu women were abducted and raped during this period, and many more committed suicide or were murdered in order to avoid this fate. In the aftermath both the Pakistani and Indian government promised to return abducted women to their families, however many were rejected by their families, or refused to return believing their families would kill them.


End file.
